


The Black Rose

by GraceRB



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bartender Castiel, Blind Dean, Braille, Car Accidents, Castiel and Jimmy Novak are Twins (Supernatural), Christmas Fluff, Dealing With Loss, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Depression, Fluffy, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kissing, Librarian Dean Winchester, M/M, Mary Winchester death fallout, Mental Hospital, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sex, Sexual Scenes, Suicide Attempt, Violence, Worried Sam Winchester, Zachariah Is an Asshole, ableism bullshit, cute stuff, face touching, homophobic violence, just being fucking scared, mentions of child abuse, minor gore/blood, schizophrenic!Jimmy, some really sad deep shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceRB/pseuds/GraceRB
Summary: John Winchester was a good father. Until he wasn't.He drank and he got mad and sometimes he hit. But Dean tried to be a good son. Dean picks John up from bars and takes him home, puts him to sleep, says "it'll be okay," and that's exactly what ruined everything.Dean didn't see that car coming. Now he doesn't see anything.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Jimmy Novak & Castiel & Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	The Black Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> So before we start, there are going to be several instances of homophobic slurs/insults and homophobic violence in this fic. I will put warnings before every chapter, but if that kind of stuff triggers you I recommend not reading this. 
> 
> This fic is about recovery, mostly, finding people to love and staying with them through thick and thin. It does have a happy ending, but there's a lot of shit to get through first. I tried to add a lot of warnings in the tags!! Honestly, this is gonna hurt. But I hope it's worth it!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you stick with it. I'll try to update every week.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: alcoholism, minor character death, car accidents, mentions of child abuse, suicide attempt,   
>  and depression

Dean used to be like any other kid.

When he was three or four years old, before Sam was born, he liked to run around the backyard with his mom playing cowboys and indians. Dean always liked to be the cowboy, chasing his mother and tackling her, although she only fell to humor him. They always laid together in a bundle of laughs, and Dean's mother tickled him and everything was perfect.

Then his mother, Mary, got pregnant and their times of tickle fights and games dwindled to rare occasions. Dean felt a little left out, maybe feeling less important than he used to be. But when Sam arrived, all of those feelings of inadequacy melted away. There was one thing he knew for sure. He loved his brother.

When their mother died, Dean was heartbroken. Sammy was just a baby, and Dean wanted to give him a happy life. He didn't really have a choice, but he still wanted to do it. Their father John fell into a deep despair when his wife died. He was able to save their sons, but Mary was already dead, trapped and burned to a crisp.

He tried, John did, he tried desperately for three years to act normal. Act like nothing was wrong. He acted like a good father. He acted like he cared. But when Dean was old enough to be even the least bit independent, John fell off the deep end. And he stopped acting.

Dean became the father Sam would never have, the mother he never had. Dean cared for Sam, feeding him, getting him to preschool, then elementary school later on, and helping him get to bed every night. John helped at first, but then he gave up. He gave in. Gave in to his sadness, his depression, and drank to hide it all.

Dean disregarded his father's anger, his lashing out, the abuse.  _ He's just not happy right now _ , Dean thought to himself,  _ he'll get back to normal again.  _ Dean didn't let it get to him. At least, he tried. He didn't let anyone ever see him cry.

But that doesn't exactly matter now. Why dwell on the past?

By the time Dean was sixteen, John had grown to manage his depression. He threw himself into every job he could find, but sometimes he had a bad day and got nothing done. He was usually fired after that, or quit, and they'd move on.

Sometimes John actually became Dean's father again, even going as far as teaching his son to drive his most prized possession, a black 1967 Chevy Impala. There were some good days. But they always faded back into bad ones. With Dean able to drive, that meant he got late night calls from a drunk John, usually crying and begging for a ride home. Dean would drive, sort of worried when his father would sit motionless in the passenger seat. But then he would let out a cry or snore, and Dean would sigh. He didn’t want this to be his life. 

He knew his father was gone long before he actually died. Nothing could return the happy, well-adjusted man Dean barely remembered. The man Sam never knew.

Dean doesn't really like to talk about it. Sam doesn't know what really happened. He never really knew. Dean never told him, and, well, John didn't live to tell the tale. It was late at night. Not dark or stormy, like the typical night when a disaster occured. 

It seemed normal. It  _ was _ normal. 

The air was cold, and the sky was black. Dean had gotten a call, a familiar drunken call from John, and gone to pick him up at a bar called The Black Rose. Dean parked and walked inside, hugging his leather jacket close and fidgeting with his pendant. Sam had given it to him for Christmas one year -- it was probably his most cherished object. 

He stepped up to the bar, instantly getting the bartender's attention. "Get out of here, kid, we don't serve minors," He said dismissively.

Dean cleared his throat. He was tall, but still looked like a kid. "Listen, man, I'm not here to drink," He earned the bartender's attention again. "My dad called me. I'm just here to pick him up and take him home."

The bartender nodded, widening his eyes a bit. "You mean John?" He asked. "He's your dad?"

Dean nodded once and smiled politely. "Can you tell me where he is?"

"Yeah," He nodded again, turning and leading Dean to a booth in the corner of the bar.

John was hunched over the table with his face buried in the crook of his elbow, a glass of whiskey clenched in his hand, sleeping silently. Dean shook his shoulder and John stirred slightly. "Come on, Dad," He said, feeling annoyed. "Come on, Sammy's waiting on us. Let's go."

John lifted his head with difficulty, and looked at Dean, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. They landed lazily somewhere around his chin. "What?" He asked.

"Come on," Dean said, lifting John's arm over his head. He pulled his father out of the booth, letting him lean on him completely. The weight was overwhelming, but Dean trudged through, pulling John along. "Thank you, sir," Dean nodded to the bartender. "Have a nice night."

The bartender nodded back, returning to his place behind the bar.

Dean laid John down in the backseat, folding his legs to move them away from the door. He slammed it closed and got into the driver's seat. John mumbled something incoherent in the back, rolling onto his side, practically throwing up.

Dean ignored him, opting to sing along to a "Bohemian Rhapsody" instead. He had his hand out the window, tapping the beat on the metal door. He stopped at a red light, and floored it when it turned green.

He passed through the next green light, and he didn't even see the other car, a 1995 Toyota Camry.

It crashed into the driver's side, instantly crumpling the doors inward. Dean was shoved violently into the passenger's seat, ramming his shoulder into the door frame. The car started to spin out and Dean flew through the passenger side window, shattering the glass. He was thrown onto the pavement, landing on his back and his head. He was winded, to say the least, and the back of his head split open in a diagonal V shape, spattering blood on the asphalt.

He watched with a blurred gaze as the Impala flipped off the road, and the Camry skidded to a halt less than five feet from Dean's legs. Little black dots started to fill his vision, and he let his head hit the ground again, feeling the blood but not the pain.

He looked up at the stars for the last time and passed out.

-

Dean woke up in the hospital. He had a bandage covering his eyes, forehead, and the back of his head. He didn't touch, but could feel the stitches in his skin. His right arm was pinned against his chest, his shoulder in immense pain. He guessed it was either broken or dislocated. "Hello?" He asked. "Is there someone there? I think I was in an accident."

He heard a sniffle beside him. "Dean?" Sammy.

"Sam? Where's Dad? What happened?" Dean turned his head, wincing slightly, trying to look at his little brother but found that he couldn't.

He heard Sam shift -- he was wiping his nose -- and he sniffled again. "Dean," He croaked. "He died in the accident. Dad's gone."

Dean huffed, trying to stifle a sob, creasing his eyebrows together. His eyes were closed, but tears slipped out anyway. "Sammy," he reached his hand towards where he thought Sam was. Sam shifted in his seat again, and took Dean's hand, pushing it back by Dean's side on the bed, but holding it tightly. "Did something happen to me?"

"Dean," He said, his tone was a soft warning. "You really should be resting. You got hurt pretty bad."

Dean clenched his jaw. He wanted -- no, needed -- to know. "Sammy, you answer me. What happened?"

Sam sighed, wiping a stray tear from his face, even though Dean couldn't see it.  _ But that was the problem wasn't it? _ He clenched Dean's hand harder, trying to give him a reassuring squeeze, but really he was terrified. He was just fourteen. He had started high school barely four months ago. He didn't want to be the one who delivered this life changing news. "Dean," He put his free hand on Dean's, surrounding it with both his hands now. "You hit your head pretty bad."

"What happened?" Dean pressed again, feeling the anxiety tighten his chest. "Tell me."

"You're blind, Dean," Sam finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean ripped his hand from Sam's grasp. He pushed the bandages off of his eyes, wincing when it tugged at his stitches a little bit. "Dean, stop." Sam stood, trying to hold Dean's free arm down.

Dean pulled the bandages off, and finally opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything.

Sure, there was some light around him, coming from what he assumed were windows, and light above him from those long bulbs in hospitals. There was a shadow next to him, a light brown color. He glanced around wildly, trying to see Sam's face. "Sam," He sat up and felt a solid figure beside him. It was the light brown color. "Is that you? I can't see you. I _can't_ _see_ you!"

Sam put Dean's hand on his chest, holding it tightly there. He cried silently, but Dean could feel his heart pound, and his chest shudder. "Dean, I'm so sorry," He croaked.

"Don't cry, Sam," Dean said, laying back and feeling dizzy. "Don't cry."

Dean stayed in the hospital for a few more weeks, and the doctors tried to find a way to reverse his blindness. It was pointless. At least he was alive. 

Their father left them some money, and Dean was a few weeks off from turning eighteen. By the time he got out of the hospital, he had the money and bought a small one bedroom apartment for Sam and himself. It was close to the high school, just a five minute bus ride away, and a twenty minute walk.

Dean had gotten his stitches taken out by the time he got back to school, and every morning he had Sam help him put on a new bandage. They walked to school together, and most days took the bus. Either way, Dean really just wanted to get used to his surroundings. He counted how many steps to the bus stop, how many steps from the stairs to the apartment door, and he also got used to his new walking stick, a white cane that could collapse into four small connected pieces.

He hated wearing the sunglasses the hospital gave him, and Sam had said that his eyes looked normal enough that he didn't need them. Not really. They were still green, still his eyes, just had a mostly blank look in them. 

At least he was alive. 

School had become a lot harder for Dean. Luckily, it was his last year, so he wouldn't have to deal with his new surroundings for that long. He was put into a special needs class, despite hating being there, it was easier for him in the long run.

The teacher was really nice. She sat with Dean every day, working on reading Braille, and walking around the empty halls with him so he could familiarize himself with the school again. He could read during lunch or breaks -- it wasn't TV, but it was something -- which he felt kind of dumb about it, but he was making some progress. And now he could entertain himself when things were slow.

It was difficult learning all of these new things, and adjusting to being blind. He was reluctant to pay attention in his new classes, especially since his Dad was ... gone. Dean was feeling ... uneasy about his father's death.

He was hopelessly lost and upset, of course, but he felt this huge weight lift off his chest. He didn't feel that looming responsibility for his catatonic father anymore. He was strangely, terribly, and regretfully happy. It was more like an intense wave of relief. And it made him feel so much worse.

At least he was alive.

He was still responsible for Sam, but it was more equally shared between them. They both needed each other now. Obviously, Dean needed Sam a lot more because he was literally walking blind, but Sam still needed a father. Dean could fill that role now that he wasn't trying to parent his own father too. (Another bittersweet thing; Dean felt awful for being happy about it.)

Dean had gotten pretty good at recognizing people. He didn't know what most of them looked like, but he could recognize their tics; the way they talked, the way they breathed, the way they walked, even the way their clothes smelled. He also noticed that everyone had an aura, a color. Sam's was a light brown. His new teacher had a rosy pink.

Make no mistake, Dean was not happy. But at least he was alive.

He had nightmares almost every night. He hyperventilated and screamed, usually jerking Sam awake. They shared a bed because they couldn't afford another, and it wasn't like they could have separate rooms. Sam just held Dean to his chest, shushing him and trying to calm him down. "It's okay," He would say. "You're okay."

Dean wouldn't reply. He usually just cried and blinked rapidly. He tried to clear his blurred, dull vision, but it never worked.

-

About five years passed by  _ excruciatingly _ slowly.

Dean made some friends, tried to get some jobs. He lived in the same apartment and lived off some Welfare for a year or two. He worked in a library, mostly answering phones and helping people find books. It was hard at first, but he could read all the books he wanted, and that was fun. His coworkers even helped to adapt the shop so he could do his job better -- he told them not to, but secretly he was very grateful. 

Sam decided he wanted to go to college, and he met a really nice girl named Jess. Her color was a nice teal blue, and Dean noticed that it complemented Sam's light brown very nicely. He always smiled when she was around. It was great knowing that Sam was happy.

When Sam left, Dean stayed behind at home. At least he was alive. 

He cried and held Sam, telling him that he was always here to talk. When they left for the airport, Dean sat in the dark of the apartment and cried for hours. He pushed himself to get to work, and forced himself to smile at people.

It took a few years, but he finally hit a very low spot. Sam was 22 and almost finished with school, and Dean was almost 26. He was tired of being alone. He hated it. He couldn’t go on for one more second spouting off “at least I’m alive” to just force himself into thinking his life was better than it seemed. He just -- he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. 

He was sitting in the bathtub, crying and hugging his knees to his chest. He had a bottle of pills in one hand, and the phone in the other. He called Sam, knowing that it was a bad idea, but he knew he had to. If he was done lying to himself, then he had to be done lying to Sam, too. 

"Hello?" Sam asked. "This is Sam."

"Sammy?" It was a whisper.

"Dean?" His voice filled with concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"No," Dean said simply, twisting the bottle in his hand. "I've just ... been thinking."

"About what, Dean?" Sam asked. Dean could feel his anxiety rising in his brother's throat. "Please, tell me you're not --"

"Sammy," Dean pleaded, feeling pathetic and lost. He had to tell the truth. "I don't want to be here anymore..."

Sam's face twisted into a painful cry. He didn't cry out, only took in a shaky breath. "Dean, please," He looked at Jess, motioning to her to use her phone and call 911. "Dean, please don't do anything. I'm getting someone to help you."

"I don't want to," Dean cried. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and rocked back and forth. "I don't want to be here anymore, Sammy."

He opened the pill bottle and held it to his mouth. He hesitated, and that made him cry harder.

"Dean! Please," Sam screamed. 

Dean dropped the phone on the bathroom tiles and felt his heart pound against his chest. He crawled out of the tub and shivered, instinctively reaching for a towel to wrap around himself. He slapped himself in the head out of frustration. He screamed, and laid flat on the floor. "I can't do it, Sammy. Why can't I just..." He trailed off and felt for the phone. "Please help me. I don't want to be like this."

Just then, the door to the apartment clattered on the floor and Dean flinched forcefully. "Dean Winchester?" A voice yelled, one with a fire-like orange color appearing in the bathroom doorway.

Dean looked up, seeing the color and reached out to it. "Help," He said quietly, hearing other footsteps stomp into the apartment.

He let them put him onto a bed, and he was rolled into an ambulance. He blacked out, feeling a heart wrenching anguish tear through him.

When he woke up again, he was in a bed in a bright room. He was alone, and he felt lost. 


End file.
